


Smoke

by arthurwhoregan



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: M/M, There are absolutely more characters in this but they arent the focus so it doesnt matter, anyway im not sure where this is headed but its gonna be sad, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 04:29:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17460650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthurwhoregan/pseuds/arthurwhoregan
Summary: Smoke. It consumes everything, slowly at first. It enters the lungs and clouds the brain. Lulls you into a sense of calmness in the midst of a storm. Kills you slowly as you inhale it.So does love.





	Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Not a very long chapter for the first one, cowboys. I just like where ive ended it. Yeethaw fellas. Its supposed to be almost like a taster..... a bit of cheese...... before the big meal....
> 
> Anyway i really love these characters. they are very important to me. John Marston especially.
> 
> Pls leave a comment if you'd like! They help me get my act together and actually finish my stories, ect.

Scraping a match against his worn work boots, Arthur raised it to a cigarette settled neatly between his fingers. The end lit up with its familiar orange glow, and he breathed in the smoke. Arthur kept it in the back of his throat, feeling its sharp sting before finally letting it out between chapped lips. The sensation never ceases to change, and never stops from calming his nerves. Nerves that seem to grow worse as the days go on. Arthur stared into the orange light. Not the one burning the end of his cigarette, but the camp fire crackling in front. The flames licked hungrily at the splintered wood he so kindly split earlier that evening. Wood that he would have to kindly split the next day, too. And the next day. And the day after that. Even such easy tasks were becoming bothersome.  
No matter what Arthur tried to calm himself, there was nothing that gave him the sense of complete faith. A bath never helped except for the smell, and the alcohol just made his headaches worse the next day. Tobacco was barely helping anymore. Arthur threw the cigarette to the ground and stamped down onto it, grinding the remains into the dirt and stone. Arthur made a habit of that after half the camp caught on fire in his youth from a careless throw of a still lit butt. Dutch never truly forgave him of that. He missed being young. Not for its physical qualities, but for its naivety. Being young and spry had its perks of course, but to Arthur, nothing could beat the feeling of having complete faith in what you believed in. 

Too focused on what was in his burdened mind, Arthur did not hear the heavy booted footsteps coming right towards him. The outlaw’s eyes were almost glazed over, so deep in himself and was only pulled out by the loud throat clearing his sudden companion made. Snapping out of it with a few blinks and the rub of tired eyes, Arthur looked to his right. Obvious annoyance formed in the creases of his mouth. He could have taken any other member, hell he’d prefer the O’Driscoll or even Micah- no, not even Arthur could force himself to pretend that was true.  
What did it matter anyway, Arthur didn’t own that particular spot in camp- although the respect people had for him seemed to be lacking the past few weeks.  
“Morgan” spoke a course and ever familiar voice.  
“Marston” Arthur replied reluctantly some seconds back. He lit yet another cigarette that his body was begging desperately for, like a mongrel for meagre kitchen scraps.  
“Watchu’ doin’ up this late. Ain’t like you.” John remarked, holding his own cigarette out expectantly for Arthur to light.  
The older man scowled but brought his cigarette to Johns and held it until another small trail of smoke drifts upwards.  
“Nothin’ that concerns you, boy.”  
With that reply came nothing else. John sat there next to Arthur on the rotten log in complete silence, except for the smoke induced coughing or the occasional yawn. The silence almost irritated Arthur, and his annoyance would have grown if John had continued with it.  
“You doin’ okay, Arthur?” More concern and kindness in Johns voice than the old con had ever heard in his life, at least from Marston.  
“Naw, not really.” Is all Arthur managed to let out. The words were wispy. Wispy and dark and choked out like the smoke in his lungs. 

More silence followed, as was per the norm with the brash two. It felt like pushing a broken wagon up a hill that did not have roads.  
“D’you... wanna… talk about it?”.  
Arthur finally looked back over to John. He was leaning forward, hair dangling as he looked down at the swampy floor of Shady Bell, still smoking his first cigarette. John certainly he had better control than Arthur ever did.  
The air around them both had suddenly become thicker, hotter, heavier, or perhaps it just seemed that way. Morgan had no idea how to reply to the younger outlaw. Arthur could ignore many things in that suffocating and humid air. The mosquitos with their itching bites, Pearson and Bill’s horrific symphony of snoring, hell even mangy Cain that would trot up in attempts to gain any attention possible. But he could not ignore John. Arthur Morgan had never been good at that. But of course, Arthur blanks Johns concern, a ricocheted bullet in remark.  
“Just under pressure, Marston. We all are. Surprised you ain’t feelin’ it too.”  
“I am. Like youse said, we all are. Just seems like you the most.”  
“You see anyone else doin’ their jobs at the moment?” Arthur barked back, coughing smoke and spit into his hand.  
John bit his lip and shook his head solemnly.  
“I- we’re all doin’ our best, Arthur. You’re soundin’ more like Dutch than anything right now.”  
Arthur snorted and rolled his eyes, unimpressed with the comment John had made.  
“Least I got some sort of plan to clean up whatever the hell this mess is… Barely.”  
“You can just ask me, y’know Arthur. To help. You ain’t so alone as you think you are.” John replied, deep brown eyes gazing right into Arthurs own blue.  
Morgan grunted at that, and no more replies came after he looked away. Once again, the silence had become too much. He could hear every little thing John did, and it drove Arthur mad. Every little cough, every shuffle and crunch of rock under foot grated on Arthur’s nerves. Ever since John came into his life, he grated on Arthurs nerves. His Arthur was sure it was his nerves, and nothing more. Weary eyes stared up into the stars that shone, or into the fire that burned, but they could not bring themselves to look at John. He knew John was staring at him, too. Pining for some sort of attention or waiting for the moment to strike up a heated argument. That was just who they were, who they have always been. 

Abruptly, Arthur stood up and started to walk into the dark of night. He had to be up early the next morning, some sort of carriage coming through the swamps. Truth be told, Arthur was not even sure who had come up with it, but as usual he went along to tie up and cut off any loose ends. The outlaw did not make much ground however, before he felt his wrist being pulled by a surprisingly soft hand, and stopped dead in his tracks. There it was again, the silence that seemed all too loud. Silence that was speaking too many things that have always been unspoken. There it was again, feelings that rose in his stomach like bubbles in hot beer and smoke into stale air. Arthur gritted his teeth and squeezed close his eyes, angry with himself. He should say something, say anything stop this nonsense once and for all.  
When Arthur reopened his eyes and looked forward and ready to speak, nothing came out of his chapped lips. All he saw was ink black. He saw nothing, for he could not see where there was no light. It was terrifying, and he could not help to look back- and when he did, he saw fire. He saw the light. He saw something in John matched himself, something in the eyes of a man he thought he hated and hated him in turn. A trail of hazy smoke escaped from Johns lips, a whispery thin trail that intertwined with the one Arthur blew out himself. Long lines of grey smoke, wrapping around themselves like the fire dancers and snake whisperers of Saint Denis.  
But Arthur pulled away and turned, the smoke quickly dissipating into nothing as fast as it appeared.  
He walked into the darkness of night. Bitter, confused and incredibly alone.


End file.
